The Once and Future King
by Theo Gary
Summary: No king rules forever, my son." One-shot. Wrath of the Lich King spoilers. Please Read & Review.


_For those who have not seen the ending of Icecrown Citadel, stop reading now if you don't want to be spoiled. This one-shot fanfic tells of the Lich King's final battle (as seen at the end of Icecrown Citadel) and of the funeral held afterwards (made up by me.)

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The air crackled with lightning. The topmost spire of Icecrown Citadel was littered with bodies. The Undead horrors of the Scourge mingled with the champions of the Horde, the Alliance, the Argent Crusade and the Knights of the Ebon Blade. Only two remained standing.

Standing tall before the Frozen Throne was evil's mightiest servant. In the Lich King's hand, the runeblade, Frostmourne gleamed with a cold blue light. It hummed with the power of all the mighty souls it had consumed this day. The air around the former Prince of Lordaeron was deathly cold, colder, even, than the biting chill of Icecrown Glacier. This was a cold that reached deep into the soul and smothered all thoughts of hope and warmth.

But his opponent did not falter. Highlord Tirion Fordring knew that this was the final battle. For good or ill, the fate of Azeroth would be decided upon this day. He knew the weight that lay squarely upon his shoulders, and yet he did not fear. The Light was his strength. In his hand, the bright golden glow of the Ashbringer seemed to intensify as its mortal enemy spoke.

"**So…the Light's vaunted justice has finally arrived**," he said mockingly, his voice reverberating unnaturally. "**Shall** **I lay down Frostmourne and throw myself at your mercy, Fordring**?"

Tirion spoke calmly. "I will grant you a swift death, Lich King. More than can be said for the thousands you've tortured and slain."

The Lich King's laugh echoed across Icecrown Glacier. "**You will learn of that first hand. I will not kill you. Not yet. I intend to do much worse**." He swept a gauntleted hand across the battlefield. "**You raised the greatest army this world has ever known…and delivered them right into my hands – exactly as I had intended. Watch now as I raise them from the dead to become Masters of the Scourge. They will shroud this world in chaos and destruction. Azeroth's fall will come at their hands. I delight in the irony. And I will keep you alive to witness the end. I would not want the Light's greatest champion to miss seeing this wretched world remade in my image. When my work is complete, Fordring, you will beg for mercy…and I will deny you. Your anguished cries will be a testament to my unbridled power**!"

Tirion bowed his head and whispered, "Light, grant me one final blessing. Give me your strength."

The Lich King smirked and raised Frostmourne over the corpses, calling upon the darkness to raise them and bind them to his service, but in a flash, Fordring was there, knocking Frostmourne away and striking for his head. He barely parried the blow and spun away. But the Paladin did not relent. What had been an amusing situation was suddenly turning deadly serious. Very quickly, he rethought his plan to keep Fordring alive. He summoned all of his dark power and sent it at the Paladin, shouting "**APOCALYPSE**!" But it was not enough. The Light cut through the waves of darkness.

No longer did Tirion use the Light. He _was_ the Light. "NO MORE, LICH KING!" he shouted. "NO MORE LIVES WILL BE CONSUMED BY YOUR HATRED!"

The Lich King saw that this was the end. He knew it. He raised Frostmourne in one last desperate parry, but the runeblade never stood a chance. It shattered into a thousand pieces as it connected with Ashbringer. The Light's own blade continued on its journey and sunk deep into the Lich King's chest.

Silence. There was no explosion of power, no anguished cry. Tirion slowly pulled Ashbringer back. With a dull thud, Arthas fell to the ground. Not the Lich King, but Arthas, Prince of Lordaeron. The helm toppled from his fair head, and the blue glow faded from his eyes.

With a sound like a gentle wind, thousands of pale shades appeared in a circle around them. In the center now knelt an old man with a broken crown upon his head. King Terenas Menethil II gently stroked his son's hair with ghostly hands. Arthas looked slowly up at his father. "Is…is it…over?"

Terenas smiled and nodded. "_At long last. No king rules forever, my son_."

"I see…only darkness…before me…" Arthas' eyes grew unfocused, then slowly closed.

Terenas gently laid his son's head down. "_Be at peace, Arthas, my son_." He stood. "_Without its Master, the restless Scourge will become an even greater threat to this world. Control must be maintained_." At last, he turned and looked directly at Tirion. "_There must always be…a Lich King_." With a bright flash, the souls of those killed by Frostmourne vanished.

For a long while, Tirion stared, not at the body of Arthas, but at the discarded helm. Even know, he sensed its evil power. Very slowly, he bent and picked it up.

_Do it, Fordring,_ whispered the voice. _Let us become one. You know there is no other way._

Tirion nodded heavily. "The weight of such a burden…must be mine, for there is no other-"

"You hold a grim destiny in your hands, brother," said a harsh and tainted, but familiar voice, "but it is not your own."

The Paladin's heart leapt. A man now sat atop the Frozen Throne with his head bowed. Even from this distance, Tirion recognized the armor he wore. "Bolvar!" He ran up to the Throne to greet his old friend, but stopped short when Bolvar raised his head. "By all that is holy…"

Bolvar Fordragon, once the Reagent Lord of Stormwind, had become something more – and less – than human. His skin was pitch black and riddled with cracks, out of which shone a fiery red light. His eyes held the same fire. "The Dragon's flame sealed my fate," he said grimly. "The world of the living…can no longer comfort me. Place the helm upon my head, Tirion. Forevermore, I will be the jailor of the damned."

Tirion shook his head. "No, old friend. I cannot resign you to such a fate-"

"Do it, Tirion! You and the other heroes of Azeroth have your own destinies to fulfill. This last act of service…is mine."

Tirion's eyes closed and a tear ran down his cheek. He knew Bolvar's words to be true. "You will not be forgotten, Brother," he vowed.

"I must be forgotten," Bolvar growled. "If the world is to live free from the tyranny of fear, they must never know what was done here today."

Reluctantly, Tirion nodded. No more words were needed. Both men knew what had to be done. Both were resigned to this fate. Bolvar bowed his head and closed his eyes. Slowly, and with great reluctance, Tirion placed the helm upon his friend's head. For a moment, nothing happened, and Tirion allowed himself to hope that the Lich King was actually gone. But then, the Frozen Throne shuddered, and Bolvar's eyes sprang open, now consumed in fire. Tirion stepped back as snow began to swirl around the Throne. But still, he heard Bolvar's last words, spoken in a deep, reverberating voice. "Tell them only that the Lich King is dead…and that Bolvar Fordragon…**DIED WITH HIM.**" When the snow cleared, Tirion saw only a jagged block of ice, at the center of which sat a half-seen figure. "**NOW GO! LEAVE THIS PLACE…AND NEVER RETURN!**"

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The moon shone bright over Dalaran. This place had been chosen, as it was the closest thing to neutral ground on Azeroth. On one side of the main road stood hundreds of Alliance soldiers, and across from them stood the proud warriors of the Horde. Beyond these two groups, also separated by the road, stood members of the Argent Crusade, the Knights of the Ebon Blade and the Kirin Tor.

All eyes were upon the procession that slowly made its way up the road. Upon a simple, black-draped litter lay the body of Arthas. All around him rode the leaders and dignitaries of Azeroth in ceremonial garb; Lady Jaina Proudmoore, King Varian Wrynn, the Bronzebeard brothers, King Magni, Lord Muradin, and Lord Brann, High Priestess Tyranda Whisperwind, King Mekkatorque, High Prophet Velen, Ranger General Vereesa Windrunner, Warchief Thrall, Overlord Garrosh Hellscream, Shadow Hunter Vol'jin, High Chief Cairne Bloodhoof, Reagent Lord Lor'themar Theron, and Queen Sylvanas Windrunner. At the head of the procession rode Archmage Rhonin, Highlord Darion Mograine, and finally, Highlord Tirion Fordring. Such a gathering was nigh unheard of. But there would be no open strife this day.

When the procession finally came to a halt, and the crowd had gathered, Tirion stood up before them.

"People of Azeroth, I thank you for coming. This day marks the end of the war in Northrend. The threat of Malygos has ended, the Old God, Yogg Saron has been defeated, and the Lich King is dead. The Scourge has been defeated once and for all. Thanks to your great bravery, Azeroth is safe once more." Even as the crowd cheered, Tirion tasted the bitter tang of the lie in his mouth, but he continued. "We gather here today, not only to rejoice, but to remember and to honor the dead. Before you lies, not the Lich King, but Prince Arthas Menethil of Lordaeron. Many of you see only your hated enemy. You see the face of a butcher, of a monster. But I tell you now to honor this man, for his was the first soul claimed by the sword, Frostmourne. Those who knew him best could tell you that if Arthas had one great failing, it was that he loved too deeply. It was this eternal, unconditional love for his people that drove him to take up that accursed sword. He was willing to pay any price, even his own soul, if it meant their safety. So do not hate him. Do not curse his name. And above all, do not remember him as the Lich King. Remember him as Prince Arthas Menethil, loving son and devoted Prince." The crowd applauded, and seemed to take it to heart. And ,truly, it had been a good speech. But it sat poorly with Tirion, considering this a glorious victory. This was a hollow, bitter victory at best.

He stepped down and watched dejectedly as Jaina Proudmoore, with tears in her eyes, set the body to the flame. After the funeral, there was a feast, and the factions were as segregated as they had been at the funeral. Tirion could see that Rhonin, Thrall and Jaina were disappointed. But he, himself, had been expecting nothing different. Too much had happened between Alliance and Horde for there to be such swift peace between them. He hated the thought, and he hated himself for thinking it, but he couldn't shake the fear that a Fourth War was on its way.

Even as Tirion lay down to sleep that night, his mind was not at rest. He wondered how long Bolvar's will would last against the evil of the Lich King. He wondered if the Dragonqueen Alexstrasza had foreseen this and had purposely done this to Bolvar when she used her fire to sweep away the Plague of the Forsaken. But most of all, he wondered what would happen to Azeroth. Would there be peace at long last…or was there another crisis waiting just over the horizon - another Cataclysm…


End file.
